Convalescence (3 page)

“I'm sure she wouldn't,” I said. From what I'd seen of Mrs. Rogers I couldn't imagine her being unkind to anyone.

“Like I say,” Barnes said. “Don't speak of things you know nothing about. I've spent half my life at the manor. I know how things work here. Now, get off with you. I have jobs to get on with.”

I said nothing more but turned and ran back to the house, thinking that I'd be better off reading my book or exploring the library, rather than exploring the grounds.

By the time I reached the house my lungs were burning in my chest. That was the most strenuous exercise I'd had since my illness, and I was shocked at how weak it had left me. Slowly, gingerly, I made my way back to my room and lay down on the bed, picking up my book to read another chapter.

I had only read one page when I heard it. Somewhere in the house someone was crying, softly, as if afraid to be heard. It sounded like a child, or maybe a young girl, and my mind went immediately to Amy. The fact that I'd seen her last night and again first thing this morning made it clear to me that she lived here at the manor, but where her room was I had no idea.

I slipped from the room and crept along the landing, trying to follow the sound. It appeared to come from deeper in the house but I couldn't be sure. The sound was nebulous. It seemed to eddy about my head, making its origin all but impossible to pin down.

I reached the end of the landing. Apart from a large window and two opposing doors, there was nothing there. Through the window all I could see was a large, rectangular brick building with a slate roof. Set in the wall was a large up-and-over door, so I figured it was probably a garage, although I had seen no cars at the manor since my arrival. It stood to reason they must have some form of transport as the place seemed pretty remote.

One of the doors at the end of the landing wouldn't open despite my attempts. The other door, conversely, opened easily and gave onto a long corridor that appeared to lead deeper into the house.

The crying continued, if anything becoming louder, as I opened the door wider.

Having no idea where the corridor might lead, and having the vague notion that it was wrong to go exploring in my uncle's house, I shut the door and returned to my room, but the crying continued. Finally, unable to contain my curiosity any longer, I laid down my book and returned to the landing.

As before, the door opened easily and I stepped through into the corridor, closing the door behind me. As the door closed, virtually all light was extinguished and I realized the corridor had no windows. The darkness was daunting and I quickly opened the door again, allowing light back in. I searched the wall, found a switch and snapped it down. Two industrial-looking bulbs, contained in wire cages and fixed to the wall, flared into life, lighting the corridor and making it seem less oppressive.

There were no doors set into the walls of the corridor—just as there were no windows—just a flat, unremarkable length of wall matching the one on the opposite side. The corridor was nothing more than a rectangular tube running along the back of the house. There was one door, though, at the far end of the corridor. It was painted black and had an ornate brass handle.

I walked the length of the corridor towards it, but the instant I curled my fingers around the handle the crying stopped. I let my hand drop, glancing about me. I felt as though I was being watched, but there was nothing to see in the featureless passageway, apart from the two caged bulbs and a rectangle of daylight at the other end where I'd left the door open when I entered from the landing.

I stood there listening, waiting for the crying to start again, but gradually, through the silence, I heard another sound. A low drone seemed to fill the air, gradually rising in volume until it seemed to fill the corridor. The volume increased until I was forced to clamp my hands over my ears, but, no matter how hard I pressed, the awful droning seemed to pulsate through my head, making me feel sick and giddy.

I felt myself swaying as the sound filled my mind. I staggered backwards, crashing into the wall. My legs gave way and slowly I slid down the painted plaster until I was sitting on the uncarpeted floor, still holding my head and trying in vain to shut out the sound.

And then, as suddenly as it started, the noise stopped.

Silence, dead silence, filled the air. Tentatively I took my hands away from my ears and pushed myself to my feet.

I was shaken. I turned and ran back along the corridor, out the door, slamming it shut behind me.

I stood for a moment, leaning forward with my hands on my knees, and then saw my bedroom door opening. An overwhelming and inexplicable feeling of fear paralyzed me. All I could do was stare at the door as it slowly opened inwards.

The relief when Miss Holt stepped out of my bedroom and onto the landing was almost palpable.

“Ah, there you are, James. I've been looking for you,” she said, fixing me with one of her penetrating looks. “What on earth's the matter, boy? You're as white as a— Have you been exerting yourself? You know you're meant to be resting.”

I stood upright and pushed my hair out of my eyes. My forehead was slick with sweat. “No, I'm fine,” I said. “Really.”

She stared at me for a few moments longer and then stepped forward. “I came to give this back to you.”

I looked down at her outstretched hand and saw she was holding my radio.

“Thank you,” I said, taking it from her.

“And remember, no listening to it at bedtime, or I'll be forced to confiscate it again.”

“No,” I said, “I won't.”

“Anyway, what are you doing inside on a day like this? It's bright and sunny outside and here you are skulking about in the house.”

“I've been reading,” I said, and realized how unconvincing I sounded. She looked from me to the door to the corridor.

“Hmm,” she said skeptically. “Well, I suggest you go outside now. Make the most of this fine weather. Go and sit in the summerhouse. You can read your book there, in the back garden, in the sunshine. I'm sure if you go and see Mrs. Rogers she'll find you a deck chair. You go and sit out there. Much better for you.”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I'll do that.” I walked past her into my room, set my radio down on the bed and picked up my book.

Miss Holt was hovering in the doorway, watching me. “I'll go and see her now,” I said.

“She was in the pantry when I came in from my walk. If you're quick you might find she's still there. She was cleaning the silver and she had a pile of it still left to do. I doubt she's finished.”

“Right. Yes, I'll go and see.”

Still she didn't move from the doorway. Finally she sniffed, gave a small toss of her head and walked off in the direction of her room.

I dropped the book back on the bed and followed it down, resting my head against the feather pillow. When I closed my eyes it was as if I could still hear that awful droning, so I lay for a long time, eyes open, staring up at the ceiling, wondering what it was I'd heard in that corridor, and what on earth was behind the door at the end.

I heard movement on the landing so I hurriedly swung my legs to the floor, grabbed my book and left the bedroom, heading downstairs to find Mrs. Rogers before Miss Holt could grill me again. I'd be glad once she was gone tomorrow.

The sun was high in a clear blue sky and it was very warm in the summerhouse as I sat reading in the deck chair Mrs. Rogers had provided. The glass of iced lemonade she'd pressed on me had been dispatched quickly and now I was feeling quite thirsty again. I picked up the glass and upended it, draining the last dregs of lemonade and melted ice. As I set the glass down on the small bamboo table, I saw something out of the corner of my eye. Something was moving through the trees at the bottom of the garden. I leaned forward in my deck chair and squinted my eyes to get a better look.

I recognized the brown curls. It was Amy, but she wasn't wearing her maid's uniform. Instead she wore jeans and a summery pink blouse, and she was moving through the trees as if she were on some kind of secret mission—watchfully—ducking behind the tree trunks and dashing across the spaces between them, all the time moving closer and closer to the pond. Once she stared directly back up to the garden and the summerhouse, and I had to duck back behind the metal doorframe in case she saw me. I didn't want her to think I was spying on her.

I watched for a few moments more before the reason for her secrecy became apparent. Barnes stepped out from behind a large oak and stretched out his arms. Amy fell into the open embrace and threw her arms around his muscular neck, and her mouth closed over his in a passionate kiss.

I looked away, blood rushing to my cheeks in a blush of total embarrassment. In a strange way I felt I was betraying her. This was obviously a secret assignation and I was privy to something that was clearly none of my business.

Eventually, after what seemed an age, the kiss ended and they walked off arm in arm towards the pond. Soon they were out of sight.

I went back to my deck chair and picked up my book, reading to try to fill my mind with images of boats and grand lakes, and to rid myself of the vision of Amy locked in a passionate embrace with the gardener-cum-handyman. But I kept reading the same page over and over again, not taking it in, and it did nothing to diminish the feeling of disappointment I was feeling. From the first moment I'd met her I had thought of Amy as an ally, a friend. Now it was as if I had lost her to an adult world that I had no part in.

I closed my book, picked up my empty glass and went inside to refill it.

The kitchen was cool, a welcome relief from the sun outside. Mrs. Rogers was seated at the kitchen table, deep in conversation with another woman of about the same age. They both looked up as I came in from the garden.

“Jimmy,” Mrs. Rogers said, “this is Mrs. Ebbage, cook here at the manor. It's her wonderful meals you've been tucking in to.”

“Very pleased to meet you,” I said to the other woman.

Mrs. Ebbage was everything you expect a country cook to be—plump, russet-faced with rosy cheeks. The only thing needed was a cheery smile, and that was noticeable by its absence. Mrs. Ebbage had a thin, spiteful-looking mouth and dark, flinty eyes. She regarded me sternly, and the kitchen seemed to grow even chillier.

She said nothing to me but turned to Mrs. Rogers. “What did you say his name was, Daphne?”

“James,” she said. “Jimmy.”

“And he's Frank's boy you say?”

“Yes, June.”

Mrs. Ebbage gave a derisive snort, dismissing me from her thoughts. “I have to get on,” she said.

I stood there, wondering what I'd done to upset the woman.

Mrs. Rogers got to her feet. “Come on, Jimmy. Let's go back to the garden.” She came across to me, wrapped an arm around my shoulders and guided me back outside.

“She doesn't like me,” I said as we walked back to the summerhouse.

“Take no notice,” she said. “She knows your father and uncle fell out. There have always been a lot of bad feelings, and June pinned her colors to your uncle's mast. She's always been very loyal to him.”

“I see,” I said, even though I didn't. I never knew the reasons behind my father and his brother falling out.

“Anyway,” Mrs. Rogers said, “don't let her bother you. Just enjoy the food she cooks.”

“Why did Uncle Thomas and my father stop speaking?” I said.

The smile slipped from her face, leaving it gray and deeply troubled. She gave a brisk shake of her head. “That's not for me to say,” she said. “And, anyway, it's nothing for you to worry your head abo…” Her voice trailed off. She was staring beyond me. “Is that Amy down there?”

She was staring intently, down towards the trees. “It is! It
is
Amy. Disobedient girl!” Suddenly she was striding towards the tree line, calling, “Amy! Come here this instant,” and punctuating each word with a sharp clap of her hands.

I stayed at the summerhouse, watching as Amy emerged sheepishly from the trees.

Being so far away from them, I couldn't hear what was being said, but Mrs. Rogers seemed to be very angry with her. And when Amy's mouth opened to give some kind of retort, Mrs. Rogers lashed out with her hand, catching Amy with a stinging blow across the cheek.

Amy started to run back towards the house. When she reached the summerhouse and saw me watching her, she paused. Her cheeks were wet with tears. For a moment our eyes met. There was pain in hers, and something else I couldn't read. “Thanks a lot,” she said bitterly. “I thought we were friends.”

“But I didn't tell—” I said, but she had already taken off again, running back to the house.

Mrs. Rogers was striding towards me. I ducked back inside the summerhouse, picked my book up and pretended to be immersed in the story. Mrs. Rogers walked straight past me, following Amy inside the house.

I sat there, bemused and confused, and wishing I were anywhere else but here.

Dinner that evening was awkward. Amy was serving, but she was more subdued, keeping her head down and avoiding making eye contact with me. She looked as if she had spent most of the day crying. Her face was pale, and her eyes red and puffy. Thankfully both Miss Holt and Mrs. Rogers were at the table, and they kept up a steady stream of conversation between themselves that more or less excluded me. I declined the offer of a postdinner game of cards, telling them I wanted an early night to finish my book, and retreated to my room.

As I shut my bedroom door relief washed over me. I kicked off my shoes and went to lie on the bed. No one could accuse me of not taking my convalescence seriously that afternoon. I had done nothing physical at all, apart from going to sit in the garden, which probably explained why I was feeling as wound up as a tightly coiled spring.

I tried reading for a while but, as I had found earlier, I couldn't concentrate, and eventually I put the book down and went across to the window, staring out at the garden. It was still light—a fine summer evening—and the white roses and the lavender spikes of the lupins seemed to glow.